Nice Try
by Fae-and-night
Summary: Sam Winchester "died" on November 2nd, 1983 with his mother. It's been 17 years, and Dean and John are just beginning to close in on what killed them. When they need someone to track it, Bobby sends them to Harvelle's Roadhouse, the home base of two boy geniuses. AU. Teenchester-ish.
1. Prologue- Nights In White Satin

Disclaimer: Much to my unending dismay, I do not own Supernatural.

Prologue- Nights in White Satin

Castiel watches the moment play out, allowing time to slowly swirl around him; his very molecules vibrating too fast for human eyes to see.

The house is flaming, the origin somewhere in the infant's room. A small child runs out of the house with a tiny bundle of blue blanket and pink skin stirring in his arms. Once they are a distance away, the boy stops and watches his home burn.  
"It's okay, Sammy," his little voice reaches Castiel's ears, as the angel peers over his shoulder to look into the face of the bundle. Large hazel eyes stare back at him from under wisps of brown curls. It doesn't surprise Castiel, considering what the babe had imbibed minutes ago, but it startles him; the look is far too familiar. Castiel thinks that perhaps the child already possessed unique attributes.

Glancing away from the mysterious little package and his brother, the angel sees John Winchester at the threshold of his ruined home. This is the moment that he must act, he realizes. He must not allow John Winchester to take hold of both children, for he knows it would be nearly impossible to separate them thereafter.

Castiel quickly stoops down and scoops the babe out of his brother's arms, just as the father is upon them. He tries desperately to stave off the squirming suspicion in his Grace that his orders are wrong. He neutralizes the father first, then the son. He removes the memories of John Winchester putting Sam in Dean's arms, Dean's memory of standing in the yard and holding the only thing that could possibly keep him calm in his arms. He constructs new memories in their places.

…_John heard Dean calling him and hollered at him to run outside as fast as he could. Dean ran out of the house, confused, scared, and hoping with all his little heart that Mommy and Sammy were okay. John watched his wife burn on the ceiling and flaming debris fall around and over the crib along with the still crying infant inside _(Castiel can't bring himself to construct a memory of a burning child). _John pulled at the wreckage, fingertips blistering and nails breaking, until the wailing has quieted and he can barely see. The man ran out of the house, smoke in his lungs and burns on his hands from clawing at the debris. He clutched his son, his only family left, and hurried to the Impala… _

Castiel leaves, knowing how this moment will play out and not willing to watch the remaining Winchesters shatter.

The next moment, he stands on a hill and stares down at the Campbells' base camp, what they call a home. The hunters here are efficient, clinical about how they go through life. The hunt is literally the family business, and everything they do from the moment they can hold a weapon is for the greater good. The Campbells are good soldiers; they are righteous.

The angel looks into the face of the babe once more. His eyes are still opened wide; however, now it is not inquiry but alarm that they are expressing. He is without his family, his home. Castiel looks into his frightened eyes and feels pity and compassion. The child needs love, not the reserved fondness he will receive here. He reasons that any hunters will do for the child, not necessarily these. He is not disobeying orders, as long as they are hunters. The Campbells, the child's extended family was simply the most logical choice. Castiel does not feel exceptionally logical in this moment.

He thinks of hunters he has heard praying, for they must pray to house such an important child; Sam must be important to warrant direct contact with any angel, though Castiel is not sure of how.  
Jim Murphy prays, but he is close to John Winchester. That would not do.  
Perhaps Pricilla McFarlin? No, she will retire soon, and the child must be raised a hunter.  
Wayne Courage? No, he will be killed by a poltergeist hours later in Jerusalem.  
William Harvelle? Ah, yes. He and his wife are righteous, despite their recent purchase of an alcohol selling establishment. William longs for children, though his wife remains slightly reluctant. Castiel stares into Sam's troubled eyes and is certain her will would bend.

Castiel appears in front of the bar, surveying the area. The night is in full swing, as the bar sings with life. Castiel nods to himself, sure the babe would be discovered before the cold could touch him; he even heard the sound of an engine nearing the establishment. He places the bundle on the step where no one would tread on it and soothes the babe with a soft stroke of his Grace.  
"_Fear not, Samuel Winchester_," he murmurs in Enochian, the ancient tones soothing down to Sam's very soul, "_for my Father is with you. I am with you, and no harm will come to you. His plan is unknown to us, but I am certain it is just. Fear not, child, for I will come when you call_."

Castiel is unsure what it is that endears this child to him, whether merely curiosity in his fate or the beautiful, keen glow of his soul, but he feels solemnly bound to protect Sam Winchester.

When he travels back to his home, he is directed to a plain white room, where another angel awaits him. She dons a severe bun and a callous, disapproving face, as she confines him to a metallic, alarmingly clean bench.  
"You must always meddle, mustn't you, Castiel?" That is the last thing he is fully aware of, before she sinks a thin drill into his brain.  
His memories are carefully sifted through and hidden away, leaving another of Heaven's question less soldiers in his place.


	2. Chapter 1: Travelin Band

Chapter One- Travelin Band

Dean stretches out his limbs, scanning over the endless expanse of wet grass and the charcoal ribbon of highway. Another night sleeping in the Impala, another whiny back the next morning. The young hunter sighs, watching the early morning steam billow off his lips. He loves his baby, but since he hit the six-foot mark, sleeping in the back isn't exactly a piece of pie. Especially not with the chilly Nebraska fall creeping up around her.

Dean sighs again, remembering why exactly he is in the "cornhusker" state: a new research team. He's supposed to meet up with his dad at a place called Harvelle's Roadhouse, their base of operations, apparently. It's an ordinary hunter dive, run by a retired hunter Ellen. Dean's heard of the joint a couple times, but never rolled through it. No bar brawls tolerated. Serves a mean steak burger. Their Hopskin's beer is the best kept secret this side of the Mississippi.

Caleb really loves the place, always saying it had a certain charm; he promised to take Dean one day after he was legal.  
_"Wish I could take ya now," Caleb said, after they'd toasted a Nebraskan wendigo, "but Ellen'd skin me for trying. No minor patrons passed such-and-such line, and she don't bend that rule, bucko. Not even for a stud like me." The older hunter grinned and flexed his arms, clapping Dean on the shoulder when he rolled his eyes.  
_Dean smirks at the memory, then snorts, _Guess she doesn't mind havin' kids _**work**_ in the bar_. Bobby told him that his researchers were _**young**_.

_Young, bright, and un-B.S.-able_. He even went so far as to call them the "progenies," which was basically giving them the Singer stamp of **don't-question-my-wise-and-inscrutable-judgment-ya-idjit** approval.

Dean still doesn't like the situation, wishing once again that Bobby could just give them a hand. Unfortunately, the gruff, older hunter has a buddy of his he needs to bail out (werewolf hunt gone sideways), so he'd be unavailable for a while.

These boys were their best shot, and now that Dad had _**really**_ found the trail this time, neither Winchester wanted to lose it.

Dean closes his eyes, leaning back on the Impala's dew-damp door. A demon. The thing that killed Mom and… Sammy was a freaking _**demon**_, and Dad had finally, finally got a lead on the sucker: their family hadn't been the only one partially wiped out. Five other babies and parents had burned, along with seventeen other infants, and hundreds of omens all had appeared around the same time.  
_That fugly had a plan,_ Dean thinks to himself, knowing none of this seems random. As much as Dean wants to just gank the thing and call it revenge, he feels in his gut that there's something more to it than just normal demon douchery. Well, whatever it is, it'll have to wait for the geek-squad to figure it out; Dean certainly isn't going to waste his time chewing on that bone until he's got more information.

Finally working one last pop out of his back, Dean slouches back into the Impala, and the ever-present ache of his loss gets pushed back to a corner of his mind. His boot sinks to the floorboard, and Dean lets his baby loose on the barren highway, knowing he's got around seventy miles to the next diner. His calloused fingers feel for the tuner knob on the radio, and they twist it clockwise for a few seconds, skipping past country after country station. The young hunter grumbles to himself how no one listens to decent music anymore, until he finally finds a classic rock DJ.  
"Thank God somebody's still got decent taste," he mutters to himself, even if it is only soft rock. Dean still belts the ballads and poppier cords as he drives, tapping the beats against the steering wheel every once in a while.

He finally sees the sign announcing his latest breakfast gamble (_Quick, stale chain drive-through, or slow-moving but worth the wait, mom-and-pop diner?_), when a familiar song croons over the airwaves, making the driver clench his fists around the wheel. The Beatles soft melody of "Hey, Jude" washes over the Winchester like an icy breeze; the song that once held so much comfort now only reminded him of the two people he'd loved most, the two people he'd lost. The life and family he lost chime through the music.

...

John completely shattered after the fire, never to mend entirely back together. He drank and drank, remembering the way the fire had pushed at him, surged after him, urging him away from his wife and his baby. He was haunted by Mary's silent scream on the ceiling and Sammy's wails; the sight of her eyes and Sammy's desperate sounds were both muffled by thick plumes of smoke and the roar of the fire, but they relentlessly flashed behind his eyes and rang in his ears. Everything reminded John of what he had lost: the love of his life, his youngest baby boy, and even Dean.

Yes, Dean was as beyond John's reach as the rest of his family was; neither the father nor the little boy was ever the same after that night, especially with each other.

Dean's silent, searching stares followed John wherever he went. The child wouldn't speak at all and barely made any sounds throughout the day; his little mouth never opened in front of strangers, and his once lively bursts of energy and joy were gone. He was always still and quiet, except the dead of the night. Night terrors ripped through the little boy almost every night, which led to tiny whimpers and deep, rattling sobs; but still, never any words.

Dean wouldn't even speak for the sake of his father, though John begged and pleaded with him.  
_Say something, Dean. Say _**anything**_, son. I'll do anything, Dean, just _**please**_ talk to me._  
The little boy would only clench his little fists like he was trying to grasp something that was no longer there. He would only look up from the floor and stare at John with wide, accusing eyes.  
_Why didn't you save them? Why are you here, and they're not? Where's my mommy? Where's my Sammy? __**Why didn't you save them?**_

Every time John looked at him, it was a slap in the face. He couldn't bear it.

Trying to escape the horrible echoes and Dean's silent accusations nearly lost John his son. Mike, the man he'd opened up his garage with, and his wife Kate, a member of Mary's book club, had taken the two Winchesters in. For months, they'd watched John self-destruct and Dean shrink into himself. Finally, after Dean's birthday had passed without so much as a twitch from either Winchester, they decided that something had to be done.

Coincidentally enough, fate had apparently come to the same conclusion.

John had wandered into a psychic's home that day, led there by a kindly, retirement-age detective who knew the kind of pain John had needed an answer he couldn't give. The detective sent John Winchester to Missouri Moseley, and there he learned the truth. After taking his hand and listening to his story, Missouri broke it to him gently, a sad little smile draped across her face. She told him about the creatures that stalked the nights and why humans must fear the dark. She gave him answers, answers that only lead to more questions; they all swirled silently, rapidly through John's mind, flitting in and out of focus like quicksand, while Missouri mildly continued with her lesson. He stayed at her house and listened to her for hours; John sat there on her couch, fully sober for the first time in months and in a daze of fear and anger.

Finally, when her teapot was empty and twilight kissed the landscape outside, she sent him to his son.  
"I think you ought to stay with me for a little while, Johnny," she told him quietly, "'til we can find you and your boy a safer place."  
John's face leached a shade paler, "Dean's not safe with Mike and Kate, is he?" Missouri shook her head sadly.  
"I'm afraid you boys aren't safe in Kansas, honey. But don't chu worry about that now, you just go get your son."

John didn't tell Mike and Kate about his plans; they had gone out under the pretense of a date night, but had actually gone to meet with Brenda Barlow, the town's lone social worker. John, completely unaware of this, simply packed up his belonging and his silent son into the impala and drove away.

It was the final goodbye John and Dean said to their old life in Lawrence.

…

"_That was one of our favorites here on Radio FAVD. The dogs here in Fairwood love those cool Beatles sounds, am I right? Awwooh!_"

Dean starts from his thought, as the disc jockey howls through the radio. Dean shakes his head and switches off the radio in disgust. They must've switched DJs when he wasn't paying attention.  
"I definitely would have remembered a douche like that," he mutters. He fumbles around the passenger seat for his cassette tapes, zooming past the diner's exist. Dean doesn't care about the lost opportunity for greasy food and cheap flirting; he's suddenly not in the mood for either.

He sighs in triumph at finding ACDC cassette and attempts to loose himself in the jam for the remainder of the drive. Around three hours, one gas stop, and two drive-throughs later (the first guys forgot his _**bacon**_, and a morning's meeting with nerds just wouldn't be bearable without his meat fix in the morning), Dean pulls up in front of Harvelle's Roadhouse.

Honestly, the place looks like it had seen better days. The paint is faded, the porch is missing a few planks, and there's a bullet hole surrounded by spidery cracks on one of the windows. There's only one other car in sight, a rusty orange '68 mustang with faded racing stripes and a busted taillight, and the place is as quiet as a church on Mardi Gras; this surrounding stretch of land goes on for miles without being interrupted by anything other than the Roadhouse.

It looks completely abandoned in the pre-noon light, and nothing screams "shady" like a deserted dive-bar in the middle of nowhere. Dean trusts Bobby completely, but he doesn't trust this situation; Dean barely trusts anyone at all, and he definitely doesn't somebody he's never even met not to try something in a deserted, rundown bar. It doesn't matter how much he likes the dusty, roughed-up, sturdy look of this dive; he's not going to walk through the front door like a doe-eyed shmuck.

He saunters quietly around to the back door, shimmying the old lock open without even needing his picks. It's too easy, and that puts Dean on edge. _What kinda place doesn't even have a decent deadbolt?_ The young hunter draws his gun, keeping it ready for action, but semi-non-threatening at his side (or as non-threatening as a readied firearm can be). If he's wrong about the place and ends up startling whoever's behind the door, well, he figures they'll understand his suspicion. _If they don't… well, they know hunters; they'll get over it._

There's very little noise in the kitchen that the backdoor led him to, just the hum of the industrial refrigerator and freezer. There are a few dishes littering the counter; an open bag of pretzels lies on the cold stove. _At least _**somebody**_'s been here recently_, Dean thinks, which both reassures him and puts him on edge, _Whoever it is, they're probably still in the building_. He skulks through the room and comes out beside the bar, pausing in the threshold; it's entirely silent in the main part of the building.

He inches forward, scanning the room for occupants. It's eerily shadowy and empty; the only light is a sunbeam falling through a broken set of blinds. Just when Dean begins to straighten his stance and relax his onto a stool, deciding to wait by the bar until somebody finds him, he's blindsided by a tangling tackle of long limbs.

_Knew I needed to worry about the front!_

The pistol in Dean's hands is knocked away with very little effort on his attacker's part, the sneak. Dean tries to wrestle the guy off him with an elbow to his ribs, while the Winchester fumbles with his boot, thumbing inside it for his knife.  
_Wish I'd strapped the Bowie on this morning_, flits through his mind, when his assailant uses his distraction to shoulder him to the floor. The guy's pretty competent and seems to be all hard, bony angles, but Dean's got his knife at his throat as soon as his back hits the floor.

In an unspoken truce, they both pause to blink at each other in the dim light, assessing. Dean blinks hard and blurts his realization, "You're a kid."  
The guy who just pinned him was a _**teenager**_; that's going to leave a bruise on Dean's Winchester pride, no matter how good the kid is. The boy makes a sour face at him, tightening his grip on Dean's shoulder.  
"And _**you**_'re trespassing. We don't open until eleven; that's a whole three hours away, _**Mister**_," he accents the title derisively, before moving. He's no longer using his body to pin Dean to the floor, but he hangs on to the Winchester's shoulder, yanking him up.

Once he's back on his feet, Dean shrugs, feeling the kid's grip follow his arm up and down with the motion.  
"Yeah, but I ain't here for the booze, kid; Bobby Singer sent me." The boy looks at him questioningly.  
"Where is he?" he asks, wide, curious eyes on Dean. The hunter senses that this question is probably more of a test than an innocent inquiry, and he's glad that he'll be able to pass it.  
"On a werewolf hunt with Phil Coleman, or Coulson or something like that. I'm Dean," he answers casually, holding his free hand out to the kid.

Apparently, Dean passes the test. The look on his face clears to a slight smile, and he lets Dean loose.  
"Bobby told us you were coming; I guess he didn't warn you about that back door, though," he snickers a little, big dimples blossoming on his cheeks.  
Dean chuckles and relaxes inexplicably, instantly liking this kid. "Nah, but I guess he's gotta get his kicks somewhere, huh? Not like being an ole recluse can be all that exciting." They both chuckle again at that, and the kid stretches out his large paw of a hand to shake Dean's.  
"Probably not," he agrees happily, shaking his bangs out of his eyes, "I'm Sam."

The name hits Dean like a punch in the gut just like it does every time he meets a "Sam," especially a Sam around his Sammy's age. Vivid green eyes sweep over the kid: tall- just about Dean's height- shaggy bourbon brown hair, and eyes that seemed to be every different shade of hazel at once.

Dean wonders, the same as he always does, if his Sammy would look like this Sam; the thought is always there in the back of the young hunter's mind. _What would Sammy look like? What would he act like? Would he be my best friend, or would we get on each other's nerves all the time? Would he be gearing up for college, or want to work on cars like me?_

Dean would never admit to it, but throughout his entire life, he'd sometimes waste hours trying to picture his brother; he'd spend sleepless nights trying to conjure Sam Winchester in his mind. Dean had thought up hundreds of Sammies over the years. Some had freckles, some wore glasses. Some were super-geeks, and some were rock stars. Some were dirty-blond grease monkeys, and others were dark-haired, emo sketch artists. But every time he finishes putting a Sammy together in his head, it always hits him that he'll never know if he measured up to the real thing.

It always hits Dean that he will never know _**his**_ Sammy.

Sam Harvelle claps Dean on the shoulder. He worriedly watches the older boy from under his fringe; his big hazel eyes earnest and concerned.  
"You okay, dude? I didn't think we hit your head too hard?" Sam's comment on the fight tapers off to a question, and Dean shrugs off his daze; it's not like it's the kid's fault or business that he reminds Dean of his brother simply because he exists.

"Yeah, I'm alright. Just thinkin'. Bobby said you guys were young, but…" Dean waves his hand at Sam, who just turned seventeen and looks it. The brunet frowns a little at the hunter then sweeps his gaze over Dean. Dean's twenty-one, but his coating of freckles always makes him look younger than he is; there are only a few little crinkles by his eyes, and those are obviously from laughter. Dean's face is still fresh and full of life; he doesn't look a thing like the usual gruff and grizzled hunters Sam sees day in and day out.

He returns Dean's sizing gesture.  
"You're a little young to be a 'seasoned' hunter yourself," the researcher remarks, strolling over to the bar. "Want anything?" asks Sam's slightly muffled voice, as he bends below the bar and reaches for a soda.

Dean's brow converges at the offer; he'd been expecting a typical hunter's welcome, complete with silver knives and "Christo"s. No matter how much this kid might like him, someone "in the know" always has to make sure; even Bobby, who Dean has known since he was eight, always preforms the standard "holy-salt-water-silver" check on him whenever he stops by Singer Salvage.  
"That's it?" he demands, suspicious of an acceptance that easy, "A little tussle and just like that, we're good to go? I could be anything!" Sam reappears, eyebrows high on his forehead, before he slides a cola Dean's way.  
"No, you couldn't," the boy informs him calmly, popping the lid off his soda, "There are devil's traps, warding runes, and salt lines all over this bar; we check them three times a day. And if you'd have been a shifter, I would've found out during our 'tussle'." The kid finishes with a shrug and sips out of his drink.

Dean still eyes him skeptically.  
"And what if I was a shifter? You didn't look like you were in much of a position to stab me in the heart a minute ago."  
"That's why I'm here," sounds a deep-Southern drawl from the pool tables.

….

A.N.: Sorry for the long wait. The only thing I can say is that I am never taking an interim course ever again.


End file.
